


That Essence Rare

by Nothing_But_Paisley



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Will figures it out!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nothing_But_Paisley/pseuds/Nothing_But_Paisley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight AU in which Will confronts Hannibal at his office after realizing his therapist is the Chesapeake Ripper.  Hannibal makes the best of a bad situation, as is his wont.  Loosely follows my other fic "Session 17."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It was you. It's been you all along.” 

“Will. Please come in,” Hannibal intones as if he's been expecting him, pulling open the door for his patient's ingress in an easy motion that is both comforting and newly horrifying. The doctor closes it quickly, turning the lock behind him. “You seem flustered. Have you lost time?” he asks airily as Will stiffly shambles into his office as if by outside direction. “Do your exercise, please.”

Will pins him with disbelieving eyes. Audibly fighting to steady his voice, he croaks:

“My name is Will Graham. It's . . . 8:05 P.M. And I'm in the office of the Chesapeake Ripper.” Hannibal is unable to keep the gleam in his eyes from touching the corners of his mouth, just for a moment. 

“Is that so, Will?”

“ _Yes_ , Dr. Lecter. I'm fairly confident _that is so_.” 

“Come, sit down,” his therapist suggests, motioning to the too-familiar armchair. Everything in the room appears to have been stretched in a funhouse mirror, at once customary and grotesque to Will's darting eyes. “Have a glass of wine,” he adds, unhurriedly retrieving a bottle of rosé from the cupboard. The same wine they had shared all those weeks ago. The same scent of sandalwood and book bindings on the still, monastic air. Avoiding Hannibal's eyes, the young man's gaze instead swims in the myriad textures of his beautiful clothing. His unassailable human suit. _This can't be happening_ , his mind interjects. _It's another dream, another Ripper dream_. He jerks back to reality as a cool glass is placed in his hand, and fights rising nausea as the doctor's dry finger brushes his own.

“Who am I drinking?” he quips, bitterly. “An overly pushy salesman? A cheeky cashier?”

“So you've figured that out, too.” Hannibal ventures, lifting the wine to his lips with automatic, reptilian grace. “You have nothing to fear, Will; the wine is not of my manufacture.” He regards Will with steady curiosity as he takes a fortifying gulp of his own, grudgingly participating in yet another of the doctor's absurd social tableaux. _Dinner parties. Field kabuki_. “What gave it away, if you don't mind my asking?”

“It's. . .” begins Will with a shudder, closing his eyes against a slew of encroaching horrors. “God, it's the way you watch.” Unbidden, his mind shows him his trusted doctor, elbow-deep in violet gore here, there driving home the implements that will mount his magnificent Wound Man. Each murder, each work a creation of staggering beauty, if one could step into a realm of pure aesthetics to appreciate the intricate alchemy of suffering, irony and art. Will's face flushes hotly with the knowledge that he alone is capable of this leap. It's what has always drawn him to the Ripper, the way he makes manifest the skewed beauty that animates Will's dreams. 

“How do I watch, Will?” Although it pains Will intensely to look at him, the doctor's glistening eyes are too magnetic for him to pull away. 

“Not with satisfaction, exactly. The Ripper—you—are not a voyeur. And although you want your skill and good taste to be recognized, you don't look to others for validation.” Hannibal sits forward, lacing his fingers together.

“Good,” he purrs.

“Your interest in watching others consume human flesh is intellectual rather than,” Will groans a little, “visceral.” Hannibal grins openly at this. “It's the look of a puppetmaster dying of curiosity over whether he can pull one more string.” Will drains his wine, rubs his eyes, too exhausted now to be crushed by panic. “Dr. Lecter, you once told me how God felt after collapsing a roof on a church full of his worshipers.”

“Remind me how he felt, Will.”

“Powerful.”

Hannibal's eyes are shining with unshed tears at this, fixing Will with a look of pure gratitude. In return, the professor offers him one of recognition, if not acceptance. 

“Since we're being honest,” Will begins, biting his wine-smeared lip to tamp down an inappropriate laugh, “I'm a great admirer of your work.” The Ripper's exposed teeth send a current of terror coursing through his limbic system, but his friend's rare smile warms him throughout. Will can't help mirroring it.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the second glass, Hannibal finally confronts the difficulty between them.

“I hesitate to bring this up, but have you shared any of these fresh insights with Jack Crawford?”

“You’ve drugged the wine,” marvels Will, watching his fingers create trails, skiffs slicing the air with warm, living keels. The psychotropic euphoria mixes with his perverse glee at sitting down with the Ripper. The ghoul who has feasted on his illness, savored his sorrow like vintage wine. Pulled his dangling strings and made him dance.

“That is hardly a response,” replies Hannibal. It is still the same calm, ragged silk voice he’s come to recognize—the anchor that once held him fast in troubled waters, now pulling him under an inky sea. Will raises blackened eyes to the artist who has bared the immense darkness of his mind to him, and him alone. Shown him its baroque labyrinth, an exhilarating paradox of order and chaos. 

“No, I came straight here,” he says, his own speech dull and thick. Unthinking. “I wanted it to be true.”

“I must apologize for dosing you with MDMA, Will. It was a precautionary measure.” The words muddle, sliding happily over each other like the ripples of passing boats.

A spark of understanding kindles slowly in the profiler’s deliciously numbed faculties.

“You wanted it to feel _good_ ,” he realizes, drawling now. “In case you had to kill me.” 

“Do I have to kill you?” Hannibal sips his wine, then puts it down. A shadow of tenderness passes over his brow as he approaches and sinks to one knee, palming Will’s fevered cheek with his cool left hand. The blade of a scalpel glints in his right, barely peeking in at the doors of his patient’s addled perception. Faced with Hannibal’s surreal _sang-froid_ , Will shuts his eyes and sinks into the soft leather of his own chair, beached by a warm wave of pleasure. 

“Dr. Lecter, I think that’s up to you,” murmurs Will as the chemical ecstasy subsides. To beg would insult Hannibal’s dignity, and his own. “But I don’t plan on talking, if that’s what you’re asking.” He wonders if his words are coherent. He feels naked and tongue-tied, poised defenselessly on the knife’s edge between life and death. It is not altogether unpleasant. Will opens his eyes as the clinical, caressing fingers slip away from him.

“And why is that, Will?” The patient drags a thumbnail absently over his lips, eying the empty glass which Hannibal instantly refills, intuiting his desire.

“Because I’m selfish, and a coward,” he almost whispers, before filling his thirsty mouth with more wine, sweet and dry. Another paradox.

“You are neither. Don’t lie, Will.” The bottom drops out of that voice, dragging Will into a corner of the Ripper’s dark realm he’s never seen before. “I’ll know if you do.”

“Because Baltimore is more beautiful with you in it.”


	3. Chapter 3

The admission that spills from Will’s wine-loosened mouth surprises him. He blenches with the memories of dozens of Ripper dreams, several of which he has shared in his sessions. He scrutinizes Hannibal for any sign of a reaction, imagining a softness creeping in at the corners of his inhuman eyes, a glimmer of wetness. _Not inhuman, superhuman_. Will squints as he studies the unruffled Ubermensch crouched before him, suddenly hyperaware of the eddies of warmth swirling over his skin and into the air between them, of their mingling, blood-backed scents. Dr. Lecter’s drugs are strong, and Will has swallowed them eagerly. Another of the good doctor’s pliant marionettes.

“How are you feeling, Will?” asks Hannibal, his tone soothing. In one fluid motion he discreetly lays the scalpel aside and removes the glass from his patient’s boneless hand to check his pulse. The incongruity of this doctor’s ministration sends an odd impulse crackling through Will’s neurons. This sculptor in flesh, specter of his nightmares and keeper of his basest desires, is touching him with gentle, cool efficiency. His bliss-ridden brain betrays him into arousal.

“A bit concerned . . . about where you’ve come down on the killing me decision.” It feels like he’s been speaking for several minutes. His eyelids flutter, hiding him from the terrifying, electric onslaught of Hannibal’s amused grin for a moment. The doctor’s hand remains pinched lightly around his wrist, registering each leap of his heart. Its fellow guides Will’s knees apart, and his treacherous body complies with a silent gasp and a thundering rush of blood.

“You see me,” murmurs Hannibal, raising himself to meet Will’s gaping mouth with his own. His lips move to the profiler’s ear, and the warm, wet reverberations nearly shake him out of his skin. “In your dreams, Will, you see me.”

“Yesss—”

Hannibal’s hands travel up his shirtfront, grasping his throat to tip him upward for another searching kiss. Will gasps as this touch sends a shockwave of pleasure coursing through his helpless form, surprising him with its intensity. All it would take is a slight application of pressure to turn him into another victim, another meal. He hopes Hannibal respects him enough to leave him intact, but, of course, consumption carries multiple associations . . .

“Ah!” 

Will starts as roving, seemingly disembodied hands palm him through his jeans. Every shameful dream that has shaken him awake, achingly hard and full of self-loathing, assaults the open windows of his mind. He moans into Hannibal’s mouth as the sleek, practiced hands move to unfasten his shirt buttons one by one. That he remain utterly still while they complete the task is suddenly the most important thing in the world—just like in his tortured nighttime visions. The sound of his own quick, shallow breath reaches him through sweet, thick layers of drug haze. A whisper of flannel slipping from his shoulders sounds in his ears like the report of a distant gunshot. Against his flushed skin, the air is wonderfully cool. Will sighs, head lolling to one side as he absorbs this new array of pleasant sensations. 

Hannibal sits back on his heels, regarding Will critically.

He has visualized killing Will Graham, of course, should the unfortunate necessity arise. Dozens of times, and not without a certain amount of adversarial relish. But seeing him here in the _sanctum sanctorum_ of his office (which is interesting), helpless, trusting, even desirous, weakens his resolve. After all, Will now knows what he is. Wants him for what he is—a prospect he had scarcely allowed purchase in his most indulgent fantasies. No, he cannot end the life of the only person capable of experiencing the world through his eyes. Will’s gasp of pleasure at the feel of his constricting hands had seen to that. 

Yes, Hannibal decides, the mongoose is far more interesting alive than dead. Especially now, with the combination of fever and arousal lending his frail body an assumed glimmer of vitality. Will’s eyes are blown wide with darkness, devoid of fear and meeting Hannibal’s own for once, even as they shine with a brilliance that can only be induced pharmacologically. He drags sensitive fingertips down the rising gooseflesh of Will’s belly, resting them splayed at the endearingly emaciated curves of his hipbones. Each whisper of air must be a fresh delight.

“Tell me, what would you like, Will?”

“Touch me again,” he begs, breathless. Will raises his tousled head with obvious effort, eyes plaintive. The words ring sweetly in Hannibal’s ears, but this won’t do at all. His patient is slumped in his chair like a lotus eater, too removed from the cares of this world to appreciate the sensuous feast he is being offered. There is little sport in this method of seduction—perhaps the addition of Demerol to Will’s drug cocktail had been a mistake.

Hannibal says his name as Will’s eyes begin to go glassy and lose focus, receiving a mumbled "hmm" by way of response. Unacceptable. A sharp slap across the cheek brings the wayward profiler back to the realm of the living. Will starts at this, drawing a sudden breath which Hannibal surges to suck from his mouth, the slack lips growing animated under his ardent attentions. He tastes of drugged wine, smells sweetly of his illness and pine sap and the lighting tang of adrenaline. Much better.

“Stand up for me, Will,” Hannibal instructs, pulling his patient up by the wrists and replacing him in the chair. “I fear you are slipping away, and I would hate to lose your company so soon.” Will gives a lopsided smile, remembering to be bashful even as he struggles with the intricacies of balancing on two feet. “Now,” he begins, arresting Will’s attention before dropping his voice to a bone-scraping whisper, “ _strip_.”

A whimper breaks from the young man’s throat as he rushes to comply, fumbling at his belt with delicious awkwardness. Hannibal watches coolly as his long, lithe limbs struggle to free themselves from every scrap of unremarkable cotton. Will’s gleaming nakedness is far preferable. He drinks it in with a parched set of eyes—it is so easy to be greedy where Will Graham is concerned. 

“Come to me,” he commands quietly. His pet special agent’s feet scrape haltingly across the rug, causing a tempting bounce of his blood-filled cock with each unsteady step. As soon as he passes within grasping range, Hannibal pulls him in by the rounded swell of his ass, swallowing it down with a low sound of animal satisfaction. A moan tears from Will’s throat as the doctor lingeringly mouths him, one hand vice-like against his hip while the other slips up his torso, his throat. Caresses his lips. He eagerly sucks the offered fingers, which leave wet trails along his back as they travel down to prepare him. 

Each thrust of Will’s hips impales him further on Hannibal’s fingers, drawing a wonderfully complex series of sounds from his open lips. No one has had him like this before. The doctor idly surmises that this would be painful for him without half the contents of Hannibal’s medicine cabinet coursing through his bloodstream. He briefly pines for the sight of Will’s face contorted with ecstatic pain as he offers his matchless flesh to the Ripper’s lust. There will be time enough for this, though. A mirage of eternity stretches out before them, begging to be tasted.

He pulls away to sit back in the chair, gently disengaging Will’s fingers from where they’ve come to rest coiled in his hair. The young man’s eyes staring down at him show lostness, dilation, need. Hannibal gets to his feet, growing bored with mere teasing. He kisses Will deeply, pulling his slim hips flush against his own as he walks the painfully aroused agent back towards his desk. He sheds his jacket and tie before pushing him down onto its wide, flat surface, pinning him there with his elbows alongside Will’s smooth flanks. His young prey seethes with unnatural heat, a sheen of sweat lending his pale skin a lovely patina.

“You’re burning up, Will,” observes the doctor, licking a stripe of fragrant salt from his neck. 

“Dr. Lecter,” croaks Will underneath him, and a satisfied ripple passes through Hannibal at this form of address. “ _Please_.”

“I’m listening.” Hannibal encloses the bared throat with his hands, gently at first. Will writhes beautifully with the increasing pressure, beginning to struggle a little. He finally relents, allowing a shuddering breath.

“Want you . . . to fuck me.”

“Oh, Will,” he smiles, then savagely bites at the crook of his patient’s neck, relishing the small groan that strangles out as his teeth slice through the Demerol. “Dear Will.” 

It would be cruel not to oblige.


End file.
